Courtney - The Cover Girl Story
by MickeyK21
Summary: Cover Girl has always been the outsider, this is one possible reason why


AUTHORS NOTE: I don't own any of the G.I. Joe characters. Hasbro does. I just write about them. This one's about Cover Girl, because so far from what I can tell, no one likes her. Maybe this will change that. This is her story. No names have been changed to protect the innocent.   
  
COURTNEY  
  
I sit and watch the two of them from across the room, talking and laughing and I feel more like an outsider than ever.   
  
Feeling left out started years ago, when I was just a baby. I guess I have my mother to thank. By age 4, I was Little Miss Peoria, and by 14, Miss Teen Chicago. I was never happier than when I was only the first runner up in the Miss Teen Illinois pageant, meaning I wouldn't have to compete in Teen Miss America. My mother, of course, was devastated.   
  
"Next year, Courtney. You'll only be 16. You can still enter and next year, we're going to win!" It was like that my whole life. We won talent contests, we won pageants, but I was the one wearing the frilly dresses and make up; the one who had to quit soccer to take dance and singing lessons.  
  
It was tough, not being a "normal" kid, with my mother constantly taking me out of school every few weeks. It was tough to make friends because I just couldn't relate to people. I just wanted to wear jeans and sneakers to school, like everyone else. I didn't have clothes; I had outfits and ensembles. I couldn't play any sports, like I wanted to. Soccer was my favorite; I used to play on a co-ed team, the Red Devils. I don't know what I liked better, the thrill of competing or the fact that my mother never went to any of my games. My dad would, though, sitting up in the stands, cheering me on.. That was, of course, until the "incident." It wasn't anything, really, I was accidentally elbowed by another player as she tried to keep me from scoring a goal, the goal that helped us win the game. The coach gave me an ice pack, and my father took me to the emergency clinic, just to be on the safe side. Nothing was broken, and I had scored the winning goal! My mother was a little less enthused.   
  
"Courtney! Your nose! What did you do? Don't you realize Little Miss Springfield is only a month away!" That was the end of my soccer career, and with it went the few friends I managed to make.   
  
I guess I should be more grateful. She did spend a lot of time with me, brushing my long, auburn hair for hours and hours on end, and carting me around to this contest and that. It's just that I was never really happy with all of that. The outfits I had to wear were stupid and I hated performing in front of people. I remember one contest, it was out of state, Terre Haute, Indiana, I got so nervous, I forgot the words to the song I was supposed to sing. I didn't win that pageant, and my mother was furious with me. So furious she didn't speak to me for the entire six and a half hour ride home. I must have been ten, or eleven. After that, I tried my hardest, resigning myself to the fact that this would be my life. That's why at 17, when I was offered a modeling contract, I knew I had to accept, for both me and my mother.   
  
I started out locally, in Chicago. My dad took a few days off from his garage and helped me find a great apartment. I think I missed that most, when I first moved, just going to his garage and helping out, doing oil changes and tune ups, while he handled the major repairs. We never told my mother, I'm sure she would have found some reason to swear it was bad for my complexion or something. I didn't have the chance to miss my mother, I think she spent more time at my place than at home. Especially when I started getting big shoots. I was never a "super-model," like the waifs you see parading around Paris and Milan, but I did get work for a major cosmetics company, and for a few big designers. That's what brought me to New York.   
  
I never really thought about what I wanted to be, it was just understood. But I never got along with any of the other models, just like I never got along with any of the pageant girls. Everything was too fierce, too competitive, not in a good way, like sports. In sports, you can train to be the best, you can try your hardest, push yourself to your limits. As a model, everything depends on your looks. Who's thinner, who has higher cheekbones, who fills out an evening gown the best. It was impossible to make friends with anyone, so once again, I was alone. Even the men, you would think once you're a model, they would be coming out of the woodwork, but it seemed to intimidate most of them, except for the rare few that wanted a trophy on their arm. Most of them were too into themselves, the body-builder types. I just wanted a down-to-earth guy, someone who didn't care if I wanted to hang out in jeans and a flannel, and not wear make up all day. But "Mr. Right" seemed impossible to find. I'd spend my nights reading or watching television, wondering why it was so easy for some people to fit in, and for others to always be outsiders.   
  
I told that to my father more than once. He was my biggest supporter, no matter what I did. I could talk to him for hours about anything, about quitting modeling and other things I would never mention to my mother. He was always there for me, for everyone, always helping people. Just like the night he stopped on his way home from work to help someone with a flat tire. The driver that struck him as he kneeled by the side of the road said he never even saw him. I was almost 19, and lost my one true friend.   
  
That's when I decided to join the army. I loved my father's stories of when he was in the service, and he and I had discussed me signing up more than once. Of course, I never acted on it, fearing what my mother's reaction would be. But the time was right. I had wasted enough of my life making other people happy. My mother seemed more upset at that then she did losing her husband. I needed to find somewhere to fit in.  
  
"But what will you do in the army?" She asked, sounding devastated.  
  
"I was thinking of being a mechanic, like Daddy."   
  
"A mechanic, Courtney? That's ridiculous! You get so grimy. You remember your father's fingernails, black from engine grease! Besides, you have such a successful career as a model, why would you want to join the army?"  
  
"I don't know." I replied. "To challenge myself, maybe. I'm so sick of people in this industry. Most of the women are catty, and most of the men are sleezy, I just want a change."   
  
"But the army?" She asked. "That's such a such a big change. It's so physical, and dangerous, it can be very dangerous."  
  
"I work out every day to stay in shape anyway, so I'm used to the physical end." I said. "Besides, I want to do something meaningful. Make a difference."  
  
"You're making a difference now. Little girls look up to you, see you in magazines, and aspire to be like you."  
  
"Like what? An airhead? Do you know how many times a day I hear the phrase "you're not paid to think, honey, you're paid to pose?" I'm tired of it all. My mind is made up. I've already taken my ASVAB's and enlisted. I'm sorry, Mother, but this it's something I have to do. Something Daddy would be proud of."   
  
"Well then. You've made your choice." She said angrily. That was the last I spoke to my mother, or at least, the last she's spoken to me. I've called several times, since, and I invited her to my basic training graduation, but she never showed. I always knew she would take it hard, but I never expected to be completely completely disowned like that.   
  
The very first thing I did when I enlisted was to cut my hair short, like I've always wanted to wear it. Basic training was tough, but I loved every minute of it. Well, almost. Having a drill instructor get in your face is a lot more stressful than a pissed off photographer yelling at you to take five. But basic training is all about discipline, and teamwork, something I quickly got used to with my squad. For the first time in my life, I was able to work with a team, to depend on people and have them depend on me, rather than living dog-eat-dog. My squad nicknamed me "Cover Girl Krieger," and it stuck, well, the first part anyway.   
  
After basic, we were handed a list of possible M.O.S. choices. My advisor, the base's company grade officer strongly suggested public affairs. "It's a natural fit" she told me, because of my prior modeling experience. But she didn't understand, I joined the army to get away from all of that. That's why I chose armor, and went to tech school at Ft. Knox. My S.M.S. was mechanics, and soon I could fix almost anything the army had that moved. Still, it was tough. Both choices were mostly male dominated fields. I studied harder than they did, because I wanted to be the best. Prove to them, and to myself, that I could do it. Part of me wish I chose another field, it was still lonely in tech school. Most of the females at Ft. Knox thought I picked armor to be around the men all the time, like I was some sort of boy-crazy teenager. I think a lot of the men had their egos bruised when I would score higher on tests, or when the training instructors would commend me, instead of them, for my good work. I didn't mean to show them up, I just wanted to work hard, I wanted to do well, not just skate by. 70 is go was my squad's motto, 70 being the grade you needed to pass. I scored in the 90s, so once again, I was the outcast.   
  
That seems like so long ago, even though it really wasn't. Now, I've proven myself, and I even made the elite G.I. Joe. I kept my basic training nickname, it seemed to fit anyway. Now I was just known as Cover Girl. I figured that this would be it, the place I was born to be. People just like me who had something to prove, and were the best of the best in their field. Yet still, I'm an outsider. Why? A simple mistake.   
  
The First Shirt on base had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. And he was so so unlike anyone I had ever met before. Structured, disciplined, but still a little rough around the edges, the first person who saw me as a soldier. He welcomed me to the team, and I could see it in his eyes, no question, no doubt, just a genuine "glad to have you here." He didn't see me as a pretty face, just as someone there to do a job.   
  
"Duke." He told me, holding out his hand.   
  
"They call me Cover Girl." I said, grinning.   
  
"Armor, right?" He asked. I nodded, waiting for the "that's an unusual field for a girl" comment which never came.   
  
"I'll show you to the female dorms." By then I had gotten used to the term. In the military there were no women, only females. In the beginning I resented it, mostly because it sounded like we were hamsters or something. Now, it was just the way things were. It still bothered me that the men were still referred to as men, not males. They lived in the dorms. We lived in female dorms.   
  
I saw him around base a few more times, and he was always friendly to me. And he didn't have a ring on his finger. How was I supposed to know that he and Scarlett were an item? That they had something going on? The minute I found out he was taken, I backed off. Despite what people thought of me, I wasn't a home-wrecker.  
  
I was used to asking guys for dates, and that's all it was. I asked, he politely let me know he was involved. It didn't come down to a cat fight, there were no big stay away from my man scenes, but I could tell that Scarlett knew.   
  
So now I sit in the mess hall, and watch the two of them from across the room, talking and laughing, and I feel more like an outsider than ever. They stop their chatter as I walk near and I shake my head. I'm not here to make friends, anyway. I'm here because I've proven myself. If we go out on a mission together, I've got their back, but here on base I don't need the high school peer-pressure routine. I held my head high as I walked past them.   
  
"Cover Girl!" Scarlett called, and I whipped around. My adrenaline was up as I waited for the fight to begin. She smiled slyly. "I hear Dusty has a little crush on you." Now it was my time to smile. Lady Jaye pushed a chair out for me at the table, motioning for me to sit.   
  
"Which one's Dusty?" I asked, as I joined them for the first time. Maybe I was wrong, I wasn't destined to be an outsider. I was something special, not because I had a room full of trophies, not because I was a model, and not because of how I looked. I was a Joe.   
  
Copyright 20001, CGR Communications.   



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